


guard/hit/hammer

by halfabreath



Series: Olympics, Please! [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Olympics AU, biathlete!holster, curler!ransom, look they're dumb world class athletes who just wanna be soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 18:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13793709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: Justin Oluransi is a gold medalist, and he has no idea what he's doing.(Ransom and Holster's first kiss happens on a tiny couch on the world's biggest stage.)





	guard/hit/hammer

**Author's Note:**

> the Olympics, Please! au has gotten completely out of hand and I'm absolutely living for it.
> 
> halfabreath.tumblr.com/tagged/olympics-please

Ransom is one half of the best mixed doubles curling team in the world, and it doesn’t feel real. He has proof - heavy, physical proof - weighing on his chest and neck but every time he catches a glimpse of the gold tucked beneath his jacket and pullover it catches him by surprise. **  
**

Justin Oluransi, gold medalist.

It’s not real yet. It’s a fantasy, a dream, a goal he’s been working towards for so long and now that he’s achieved it he has absolutely no idea what to do. Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s going to curl again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, because he has more medals to win (and what a fucking incredible sentence that is) but for the moment he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing.

Justin Oluransi, gold medalist, has been loitering in the hallway of the American housing of the Olympic Village for the better part of an hour while his teammates are out celebrating, and he’s not entirely sure why. His parents and sisters haven’t arrived yet due to cancelled and delayed flights from Toronto (at least they’ll be able to watch the round robin matches; that’s where most of the action will be) but he called them the moment before he stepped on the podium and tucked his phone into his front pocket so they could sing along to  _O, Canada_  with him from the airport they’re stranded in (and it was incredible; he’s won a medal before, a bronze from his first Olympics as a teenage curling prodigy but a gold feels so different. He’s never felt this proud, this happy, this accomplished, before and for the first time in years the voice in the back of his mind that whispers a constant stream of  _you should be better why don’t you work harder failing is not an option you’re supposed to be better than this_  is silent.)

And yet, through it all, Ransom couldn’t keep a goofy American biathlete’s “Hell- _oh_ , Canada” out of his mind. He knows Holster watched his match - his cheering is, let’s say,  _distinctive_  - but he had to leave for his own event before the medal ceremony began. Ransom had been distracted, obviously, and even though he’s only known Holster for four days and two dates (if showing up at Holster’s room with bananas and Gatorade could be counted as a date; Ransom thinks it does since they’d talked about first date things even if they were sitting on Holster’s bed fully clothed and not at a restaurant or coffee shop) Ransom  _missed_ him.

Justin Oluransi, gold medalist, isn’t quite sure what that means.

Curling is a mental sport. It’s about taking the strategy in your head to the real world, making it happen exactly how you’ve imagined it for an optimal outcome. It’s about rolling with the punches, constantly updating your own plan and doing mental gymnastics to make the angles work, and then it’s about physically bringing that plan to life. It’s about connecting the mind and the body.

Ransom doesn’t have a strategy for this. He’s tried to plan out what he’ll say when Holster comes back and sees him standing right outside his room but the words he strings together feel choppy and unwieldy. His body brought him here but his mind hasn’t quite caught up. He knows, in his bones, that he’s supposed to be here when Holster gets back, but he can’t explain why. He just has to be here.

Logically, it doesn’t make sense. He’s known Holster for four days and he has no idea if he’ll ever see him again after the games finish. They both live in different countries, both are at the whim of two sports that take them around the world for competitions, both have jobs and lives to get back to. It’s ridiculous for him to tie his Olympic experience to a person. These two weeks are about him, his team, his family, and his country, not a hookup (Ransom  _knows_ , somehow, that Holster isn’t just a hookup but again, he can’t explain why or how he knows because the answer is terrifying).

But here he is, standing outside Holster’s door, waiting for him to return to his room. Holster could be off celebrating his own accomplishments, for all Ransom knows, and might not be back for hours. Maybe he’s off with someone else, he knows Holster and Jack Zimmermann are friends and  _fuck_ , he can’t compete with Jack’s blue eyes, tragic past, and thighs of steel.

Ransom lets his head fall back against Holster’s door, connecting with a soft  _thunk_. God, what is he thinking?

(He’s thinking about Holster, flushed and sweating after a race, sauntering up to him with a grin and cheesy pick up line; he’s thinking about the warmth of Holster’s body through their layers of clothing when Holster had leaned in to get a better view of the ice dancers; he’s thinking about Holster spinning him around, lights and people swirling past as they’d danced in the middle of the Olympic Village; he’s thinking about how he’d leapt into Holster’s arms and how Holster had automatically known to catch him and swing him down into a dip; he’s thinking about blue eyes and broad shoulders and sarcastic jokes and hummed melodies and breathless laughter.)

Ransom tilts to the side, sliding across the door until his shoulder catches on the doorframe. Five more minutes. Maybe ten. But that’s it. He won’t wait any longer than fifteen minutes. He won’t. That’s the new plan, and Ransom’s sticking to it. Twenty minutes, not a second over -

Distant footsteps tear him from his thoughts (twenty five minutes, not a moment more - ). Ransom pushes off the wall as the footsteps grow louder, and just when he’s managed to push his hopes back down to a manageable level Holster turns the corner, steps faltering in surprise when he sees Ransom standing in front of his door.

Honestly, Holster looks kind of terrible. His hair is messy, there are bags under his eyes, and his shoulders are slumped with visible exhaustion. He’s walking slowly, like he’s moving underwater, and he’s staring at Ransom with a shocked expression on his face, brow furrowed in confusion as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Ransom opens his mouth to apologize for showing up out of the blue, but before he can get the words out Holster’s confused expression shifts to a fond smile as his brain catches up with what his eyes are seeing.

“Hi,” Holster says, shuffling forward a few more steps to close the distance between them. His voice is raspy but warm, smile tired but bright.

Honestly, Holster looks kind of beautiful.

Justin Oluransi, gold medalist, suddenly knows exactly what his strategy is. He reaches out and tugs Holster in by his thick coat, setting one hand on his hip and the other on his cheek to guide him in for a kiss. Holster all but melts against him, settling into his arms with a soft little sigh. He leans his weight against Ransom, soft lips contrasting with his rough stubble, and suddenly, Holster’s become a part of Ransom’s careful plans.

When Ransom pulls back Holster chases him, eyes closed as he tilts forward. Ransom laughs, quiet and breathy, and when Holster opens his eyes his lips spread into a slow smile.

“Woah, Canada,” Holster mumbles, the syllables dropping from his lips like honey. When Ransom kisses him he swears he can taste them, sticky and sweet on Holster’s tongue. Ransom cups Holster’s stubbly cheeks in his palms as Holster’s settle on his hips. Holster squeezes him, just once, before dropping a kiss to Ransom’s jaw.

“Do you, uh,” Holster pauses as heat floods his cheeks when he blushes; Ransom can feel the warmth beneath his hands. “Do you want to come in? I kind of feel like I’m about to fall over.” He admits. He still looks gorgeous, flushed and open and smiling, but the exhaustion is etched into the corners of his mouth and the slight furrow of his brow.

Ransom straightens up so he’s not slouching against the door. “One kiss knocks you off your feet, eh?” He teases. Holster laughs as he pushes himself back into a standing position, moving sluggishly.

“Hey, now. It was two kisses. Don’t try and sell me short.” Holster shoots back. He drags his key from his pocket and stabs it ineffectually against the door; his hands are trembling. Ransom takes the key and slides it smoothly into the lock; Holster bumps their shoulders together in thanks before following Ransom inside.

Holster’s apartment is the exact mirror of Ransom’s. The American biathlete team is small so there’s just one person in each of the four rooms that make up the suite but Holster makes a b-line for the couch, dropping his coat, water pack, hat, and gloves along the way. Ransom scoops up his belongings and piles them on the kitchen table, draping his own coat over the top. He turns just in time to see Holster flop dramatically onto the couch that’s much too small for him, limbs going limp as the air in his lungs exits in a punched-out sigh.

“I can go, if you want to get some rest.” Ransom offers, hands still awkwardly patting down the pile of winter wear to make sure nothing slips off the table.

“I –” Holster begins, cutting himself off with a little huff of laughter. He stretches out his arm, making little grabby hand motions until Ransom takes three steps to walk across the room. “I want you to stay, and I want to get some rest. Is that too weird?” Holster asks with a little wince.

“No,” Ransom says. “Of course not.” Holster grins and catches Ransom’s hand to pull him down, shifting this way and that in little bursts of movement until they’re both settled as comfortably as they can be on a couch that’s definitely not designed for two six foot plus men to cuddle (Ransom’s going to submit a formal complaint, in  _writing_ ).

They’re silent for a long moment, just focused on syncing their breathing. Holster turns his head to press a string of kisses down the column of Ransom’s throat (such a big person shouldn’t seem capable of such tender, contained moments, especially one who shoots a gun for a living, but something tells Ransom Holster will always find ways to surprise him – he’ll have to factor that into his plan).

Holster’s low hum draws Ransom from his thoughts. His hand slips up Ransom’s elbow, to his shoulder, and then down his sternum, and his fingers slip beneath the zipper of Ransom’s pullover to tug on the soft blue fabric looped around Ransom’s neck.

“Can I see?” Holster asks, warm breath fanning across Ransom’s cheek. Ransom nods and lifts himself up so Holster can pull his medal out from underneath his pullover. “Wow,” Holster breathes, voice so soft Ransom feels it more than he hears it.

Ransom glances down, watching how Holster’s thumb traces along the edge of the gold disk that he’s worked his entire life to earn. He looks up to find Holster’s half-lidded eyes trained on his face, lips quirked up in a small smile.

“You’re amazing.” Holster says, sincerity dripping from every syllable. “I’ve never – look, I don’t claim to know anything about curling, but the way you played…You took my breath away and I couldn’t get it back until after my race ended.” He blushes as he speaks; Ransom brushes his thumb over his cheekbone just to take in the contrast of the deep ochre of his own skin against Holster’s pale pink. They look good together.

“Are you saying I’m the reason you didn’t win your race?” Ransom teases, dipping his head down to press his lips along the path his thumb just traced.

Holster shakes with laughter beneath him, jostling him lightly as his abdominal muscles contract. “Exactly.” Holster confirms, slipping into the broad smile Ransom’s coming to know so well. “Try not to be brilliant next time. It’s very distracting and some of us need all the help we can get.”

Ransom drops a kiss to the corner of Holster’s smile. “Mmm, sorry, not possible.” Ransom says, lifting one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. Usually, something in him says  _I can be smarter I can work harder I will do better_  but today, he believes he can be brilliant. Holster drags his hand up to brush his knuckles over his jaw so gently Ransom can barely feel the warmth of his fingers.

“Yeah, I know.” Holster agrees with a crooked little smile. Ransom ducks his head, about to kiss that smile off his face, when Holster tilts his head back in the biggest yawn Ransom’s ever seen. He swears he can see each and every one Holster’s teeth and his expanding ribs almost tilt Ransom off his perch.

“You should to go sleep.” Ransom says, already pushing himself even as Holster attempts, ineffectually, to pull him back down.

“No,” Holster whines, dragging out the word as Ransom pulls him into a sitting position. “Why? Who gave you the authority to do this?”

“You did,” Ransom shifts his weight to leverage Holster off the couch and pushes him in the direction of the bathroom. “I want to kiss you some more tomorrow and you have to be conscious for that, so we’re going to go to sleep.” Ransom instructs. Holster makes a low grumbling sound but obeys.

Ransom knows exactly what his strategy is.

(Holster emerging from the bathroom bare chested with a pair of glasses perched on his nose is just an added bonus.)


End file.
